


in prevention of drowning

by wordcatchers



Series: through these trembling to still waters [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Andy does it for Teddy), (specifically Hermione's), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breastfeeding, F/F, Past Torture, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, aka some backstory to "you are a wonder", anonymous letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28806750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordcatchers/pseuds/wordcatchers
Summary: Before they eventually meet in person, an unlikely witch can't help but conduct an anonymous and tentative correspondence with Hermione Granger.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Andromeda Black Tonks, Hermione Granger/Andromeda Black Tonks
Series: through these trembling to still waters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112051
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	in prevention of drowning

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote most of this last month, but finally finished and tidied it up (after Midnight... which is probably not the best idea, but a woman is not currently tired and apparently wants to fuck her sleeping schedule up even more lmao). Anyway. I have tentative ideas for future installments, but no guarantees as nothing more is currently written.
> 
> Content warning for a depiction of past torture and bodily harm.

She watches as he drinks from a glass of water while carefully rocking Teddy in his right arm, pausing in her reading. He’s been revising so much for the Auror examination, and so she offered to read to him from the text, give his eyes a break. Just as she’d done with Nymphadora several years ago. Andromeda can hear her daughter now, teasing her that even in death her mum can’t call her by the name she prefers. She still slips, uses the full name. She’d already given her husband a nickname, from Edward to Ted, so can’t she keep the privilege of calling her only child by her full, given name?

It’s precious to her, the memory of holding her newborn baby girl, whispering out, “ _Nymphadora,_ ” as she raised the bundled child to her breast for her first feeding. The image flashes before her eyes, memories shifting until she sees her daughter doing the same but within the confines of the Tonks’ household instead of at St. Mungo’s due to the raging war around them. Andromeda had sat next to Remus as the man held his wife’s hand. Ted… gone. But she’d shoved her storm of emotions for her deceased husband away during the moment, singularly focusing on the joy of her newborn grandson.

Andromeda faintly hears Harry’s voice drifting towards her. She blinks through a haze that’s formed in her vision, the words from the paragraph she’s stopped reading from blending together and blurring. Ah. She’s gotten lost in the past again. Sometimes simply looking at little Teddy does it. Then she sees Harry with him, thinks of how that should be Remus, or at least that Remus should be here, looking fondly on as his old friend’s son takes care of _his_ son. In such a way, Harry and Teddy are Marauders’ cousins. 

“You want to hold him?” Harry asks and she turns her head up, blinking rapidly. He gives her a gentle smile, the glass of water sitting on the coffee table as he holds Teddy in his arms. She slowly returns the smile, gradually learning how to again without immense strain of effort, trying to remember _how_ to form the facial expression. She nods, staying silent for fear of hearing her own voice thick with emotion, cracking from the sheer pressure of trying _not_ to surrender to the trembling mess of thoughts that pervade her mind, trying to poison when she should—

Harry’s in front of her, placing Teddy in her arms that are instinctively acting of their own accord, forming a cradle for the baby to rest in. She looks up at Harry and whispers a strangled, “ _Thank you,_ ” and the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice-Over only smiles again, or is it more of a loose grin? He’s such a sweet boy. She should call him a man, he is eighteen years old, a year past the age of maturity in Wizarding society, and now in the Muggle world as well. But she just can’t. Not yet. The more he comes round to the house to help her out, the more he’s like the son she never had.

When he sits back down a few steps away, placing the Auror prep textbook on the coffee table that he’s slid from out of her lap without her noticing, he drinks from the glass of water again then meets her eyes. “Care to hear about my mates? Think I’m… well, er, decent enough at storytelling. Non-fictional, that is—all of this is true, of course. Not sure how I’d fare with coming up with stories on the fly all on my own.” He chuckles and leans back in his seat. She nods, wanting to think about anything else while she rocks Teddy in her arms.

She learns that Ronald Weasley is in the thick of it as an Auror, choosing to take in all of the perks his war hero status gives him. He skipped the traditional examination that Harry is currently preparing for with her help, and instead went straight into it. The redheaded wizard had started off strong, but began to flounder without, as Harry said Ron explicitly wrote to him, “you by my side, mate.” Harry almost rolls his eyes and Andromeda shifts Teddy slightly in her arms to properly support his neck as he fidgets about a little. 

“And I wrote back to him that I said he could help George with handling the shop, wait like I have and take the examination with me. But he said Percy’s already helping George, he’d just feel _useless_ , and I— I can’t fault him for that. Ron’s been… he has his own issues of inadequacy, lack of worth. Me and Hermione have been talking with him about it, trying to help, at least when she’s…” he heaves a sigh, runs nervous fingers through his hair. “He pushes back a lot, but he listens. Mostly. Sometimes. We’re Gryffindors, though, so put three of us in a room, all headstrong—”

“I _had_ wondered in the past how your common room has not exploded at certain points. Sometimes over a hundred or so of you all there. All of those red-hot, headstrong, passionate people, all in one space?” She cracks a small smile, something real, something that’s not a chore to force her face into achieving. Harry grins and rubs at his already unruly hair, mussing it up even more before she notices his magic reacting, seemingly batting his own hand away as it works to try and tame the boy’s hair itself somewhat.

“Says the Slytherin,” Harry jokes. “As if you lot aren’t trying to climb all over each other and one-up who’s the most cunning, who can—” Ah. She’s chuckling a bit, isn’t she? He’s halted his speech and is blinking curiously at her, then he breaks into a wide smile. She tucks her feet up under her so she’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa, long since having said fuck you to absolute pure-blood decorum, and leans back against the cushion behind her, only looking down as she hears Teddy gurgling happily.

She swipes a gentle finger over the boy’s tiny cheek and sighs. “Merlin, ‘climb all over each other,’ eh?” Andromeda raises her eyebrows and watches with mirth as Harry flushes, understanding what she’s insinuating. “We all _know_ it’s the bloody Hufflepuffs who do that sort of thing.” As she smiles fondly, recalling a time decades ago while dating Ted, Harry blanches and holds his hands to his face, murmuring _no no no no no_ , and she almost wonders if she’s broken the boy. He peeks through his fingers and glances at Teddy, then waves his wand to produce multi-coloured bubbles.

Salazar, it’s a beautiful sight. She places safety barrier charms at the edges of the sofa and lets Teddy crawl to the other side, waving in the air at the bubbles. He giggles as he pops a few, and it’s a good moment. It’s turned into a happier moment. It won’t last forever, she knows, but that’s what moments are. Perhaps with time, they’ll grow into happier hours, happier days, happier years.

* * *

“You really should give it a go, Andromeda,” Harry nudges her with the spell book. She doesn’t _need_ it, truly, she’s seen witches in the maternity ward at St. Mungo’s use it before. Grandmothers feeding their newborn grandchildren when the mother has nothing in her, is incapable beyond even spelled aid, and volunteers who help with orphans, casting the spell on themselves because the mums had specified breast milk only before passing on. That hadn’t been the case with her Nymphadora—gone off into battle, fully expecting to return home, she hadn’t made any changes to Teddy’s part of the updated will. Only that if, and only _if,_ something should happen to incapacitate both she and Remus for a _time_ , then guardianship would fall to her mother. Nothing more, nothing less.

_“I’m not leaving you, Mum,” her daughter had assured her, holding her so tightly as she’d shed all of her metamorphmagus alterations during the moment. Andromeda had gripped onto Nymphadora like it was the last time she’d ever get to hold her. And it was. But her daughter hadn’t truly left her, had she?_

_She’d left part of herself in Teddy._

She glances at the opened spell book if only to appease Harry and then swallows, digging her wand out of an inside robe pocket. The boy is almost six months old now, and she’s been exclusively bottle-feeding him since May despite the fact her daughter had exclusively breastfed him up until her death. It felt _wrong_ of her to take over in that capacity, not only because she wasn’t naturally producing her own milk, but because… though she was capable of becoming pregnant herself for at least ten more years thanks to being a witch with a longer lifespan when compared to Muggle women, she hadn’t planned on doing it, on _breastfeeding_ , ever again. Not that she didn’t enjoy doing it with Nymphadora, but this… this was something her daughter had loved doing. Loved feeding Teddy, adored it as a bonding experience. As much as she’d told Andromeda that she wasn’t leaving her, her daughter also _never_ planned on leaving little Teddy Lupin without his parents.

With a motion from her wand in the general direction of her breasts, an old yet familiar sensation comes over her: the production of a mother’s milk. Gods, it’s been over two decades since last… since—

She wipes a few stray tears from her eyes with the back of her hands and shifts in the seat as the feeling of her breasts swelling passes through her ever so slowly. The spell takes time, at least ten minutes before she’s properly ready to give nourishment, all in order to allow her body enough time to adjust. Harry awkwardly asks her if it’s started to work, and she rubs her knuckles over one of his cheeks, reminding him there’s nothing to be feeling embarrassed or ashamed about. “I know you don’t see witches in any other way except sisterly and motherly, dear boy. I don’t have to worry about _you_ like that.” Harry swallows hard and the blush begins to fade from his cheeks as he rubs at the nape of his neck. It’s still difficult for him, she knows. After Lily died, he’d not had a proper mother. And gods does that make her chest ache for him even more so now from the effects of the spell on her hormones.

He clears his throat and she watches as he reads silently from the spell book again, reminding her of what she’s to do to safely expedite the process. While he’s gone upstairs to rouse Teddy from a nap, one they’re more than certain he’ll wake from rather hungry, maybe even desperate to nurse, Andromeda begins to undo her outer robe, then once it’s hung on the cloak and robe rack, she cups the tender undersides of her still covered breasts. They’re not yet straining against her bra, but she knows it’s only a matter of time. She goes for her blouse then, unbuttoning it to allow ample room for Teddy to nurse from her. Her bra leaves her to settle next to her on the other cushion just in time for the material to not get in the way of allowing the spell to accomplish its work unhindered.

She’s massaging her breasts, almost in awe of the small beads of white that have formed at the tips of her nipples when she hears faint footsteps. It’s been so long. So bloody long. She can almost see her newborn Nymphadora here. Andromeda swipes at one nipple, eyeing the bead of milk to distract herself from the memories, then looks up as footsteps grow closer. Harry walks in with Teddy resting against his shoulder, and as soon as he softly says, “Hey, big man, look who’s here— your nana!” The small boy turns his head and then wriggles in Harry’s hold, hands held out toward her, calling for her with incomprehensible babbling.

Oh Merlin, he’s… he’s _everything_. She hardly notices Harry’s light flush as he gives Teddy to her, instead falling back into the motions as if… what had Ted called it? Like riding a Muggle bicycle again after years away? As she positions Teddy so that he can properly latch on to her, the memories snap into place. Her nipples are leaking a bit of milk, something they’d done with Nymphadora, too—simply hearing her cry, becoming overly emotional, all of that sent her production into overdrive. And it’s the same now, these memories crashing into her.

Teddy latches onto her, mouth secure around her areola, suckling at the nipple. Perhaps this return to breastfeeding is like that bicycle adage as well? Either way, she’s thankful for such a pleasant baby of a grandson. His hair turns a soothing blue colour as he feeds, her milk production settling to keep with his needs, and Harry progresses through twenty-five pages during the thirty-minute feeding—switching Teddy to her other breast after the first fifteen tick by. Andromeda can only thank Harry for finally persuading her to try this, but she refrains from confiding that it feels as if this has given her purpose again after all she’s lost. Anyone can feed a child with a bottle, but this? Only she can do this, only she can provide this milk. _Her_ milk. The closest thing Teddy will ever get to his mum’s again.

* * *

She’s always told Harry that he can talk to her about anything. And she meant it. Still does. Even if what he’s telling her now breaks her heart for a witch she’s never even properly met. Harry sits next to her on the sofa in her sitting room, wringing his hands together, and he tells her that he doesn’t think he should go into fieldwork as an Auror yet, because one of his best friends needs him. He puts his hands to his face, rubbing at reddened, puffy eyes, and her chest tightens in concern not only for him, but for Hermione Granger.

“It’s like she flips some switch, Andromeda, between throwing herself completely into her work or completely shutting down where even Luna and Gin can’t get through to her,” Harry says, his voice thick with emotion. “She says, ‘at least I’ve still got my mind,’ but then it’s as if her eyes go hollow and then she’ll just shake her head and retreat into herself. The Headmistress has fortunately essentially _forced_ her into meeting with her at least once a week, but even that…”

Andy draws the boy in for a hug as he cries, shushing him, comforting as best she can. She can only imagine how terribly this would go over with the Muggle-born witch, because for all her caring instincts, she knows that she looks so much like Bellatrix… like the woman who had tortured and _maimed_ Hermione Granger. Andromeda knows any contact with her is a laughable concept. At least Narcissa had taken from their mother’s side of the family with her blonde hair and clear blue eyes. But she knows better than to expect Cissa to do anything about Miss Granger, because she hasn’t even reached out to her own _sister_. The only one she has left now.

“If she hadn’t been friends with me, she wouldn’t have been—been _tortured_ ,” Harry cries, his voice cracking. Andromeda smooths his unruly hair and presses a firm kiss to his head. “ _Andy_ —”

“Shush, Harry. If she hadn’t been your friend, she is _still_ a Muggle-born. She may have been…” a sharp intake of breath, Ted’s face swimming into her mind’s eye, “murdered by Snatchers. She couldn’t have attended Hogwarts, she–she may have been with my Ted, running. _Dying_.” She shudders and pulls him closer and time passes without either of them taking notice.

When she wakes, the sun is setting and she’s left with tendrils of a dream, an impossible dream of sending all British Muggle-borns far, far away, so none of them died or suffered any more during the war. The sheer logistics would have made it impossible even with a functioning Ministry that hadn’t been taken over by Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters. But it’s a lovely dream, one she wishes she could have stayed in if only for a little while longer. A world where she still has her Ted, one where Hermione Granger isn’t the lost, spiralling, completely traumatised witch she’s come to hear about from Harry.

It’s weeks later when Hermione is brought up again, but this time she’s the one who utters the witch’s name before Harry is about to take her Floo back to Grimmauld Place. She cannot see the witch in person, cannot take such a risk that could set the woman back by leaps and bounds, but she can and has looked into, _researched_ how she can medically help the Gryffindor witch. And she presents him with a vial filled with a potion of a light purple, almost lavender colour.

“This is to take the place of…” she summons a parchment from another room, showing it to Harry, “these three potions she’s already taking for her left hand. The tremors. Please don’t tell her who it’s from. I don’t—” Andromeda sighs and doesn’t nudge Harry away when she’s enveloped by his strong arms. He’s matured. She still sees him as a boy, though. Like a son. Always will. She’s starting to think that Ted Tonks may have been an exception, though it’s not as if she has the time nor space in her mind to take another chance on love.

“Thanks, Andy,” Harry murmurs against her hair. He’s taller than her, and she has to smile up at him. Still somewhat lanky, though. She invites him to come back for dinner, and he does. He tells her during that Hermione had peered at the potion curiously, eyed him almost suspiciously, but had been in an almost rare good mood, shrugged, and downed it. It wasn’t going to stop the tremors completely, but she admitted that it wasn’t making anything _worse_.

They’re sitting on the sofa after they finish eating, and Harry hangs his head between his legs. “ _‘Not as if it can get much worse,’_ she said. She’s so… bloody _cynical_ at times now, Andy.” He sits up again, though, and continues, “But thanks for making that potion for her. You’ve got a great memory. Even _I_ can hardly remember all the potions she takes for her hands and that scar your sister gave her.”

She shrugs one shoulder. It’s not as if she has much going on, even if she still has some friends who drop by every now and then. It’s difficult, being friends with a widow and a mother who’s lost her only child and son-in-law. She understands that. And part of her can’t help but think that she shares some of that difficulty with Hermione Granger. A different form, the form of a witch who’s been through far too much for someone who’s not even twenty years old yet, but the same cautious shape she’s familiar with. They’re both damaged, both hurting.

She wishes yet another time that she wasn’t a Black, or that she at least didn’t look so much like Bellatrix. Every time she hears more about Hermione Granger, some part of her nearly aches to seek the witch out and try to do anything more to help. She wonders if it’s the Healer in her, the mother, or something else entirely.

* * *

The same vial appears in her dormitory every week at the same exact time by the same grey owl. She’s taken to applying a charm to the window so it opens five minutes before, something she’s rather proud of herself for, though she has to reapply it every other week. She’s disappointed at herself for her inability to decipher how to refactor the spell so that it’ll exhibit permanence. It’s another example of the dissonance within herself, and Hermione knows it intimately.

Ginny and Luna were over earlier, and she feels that it’ll be a good day until it isn’t. Until she drops the vial and it smashes on the hardwood and she’s too late to cast a simple _reparo_ and tidy everything up. She— _it’s January 25th, 1999_ , she tells herself as she collapses onto the ground, picking at the glass shards. One of the fingers of her useless right hand scrapes against a sharp edge and she watches as the blood pools, unfeeling.

_“Mudblood. Unworthy of your magic, unworthy of your_ wand _,” Bellatrix hisses, shoving her into the drawing-room wall again. She’s cast something on it, something that makes it feel like there’s spikes digging into the flesh, muscle, and bones of her backside. Hermione winces, almost bites through her bottom lip, but doesn’t cry out. That only makes Lestrange happy. Bloody lunatic._

_She breathes in, out of her nose, her nostrils flaring as tears prick at her eyes again. Traitorous liquid from her body. And then Bellatrix is up against her, snarling as the tip of her wand digs into her neck, some spell cast that’s choking her. She gasps until her vision begins to fade, and is helpless to escape from the other witch’s hold as she’s forcefully pushed to the floor. It’s only for a moment that she’s able to think something unrelated to pain, something about how grand the chandelier is, before she hears it._

_“Crucio!” And her body is on fire. It’s—it’s somehow_ worse _than how Harry had described. She wishes that she’d never asked him, even for “educational purposes.” What a load of—and again, she’d let it fade, teased her into a small sense of complacency, that’s where the rational thought process came in again. But it’s gone now—it’s—_

_She can’t hear her own thoughts over her screams. Joints feel like they’re cracking open, twisting unnaturally. She nearly chokes on her own vomit until Bellatrix uses her wand to turn her onto her side. Then the bile is vanished._

_“Can’t have you dying_ yet _,” Bellatrix says as if they’re having polite dinner conversation. And it starts_ again _. All she hears are her screams and Lestrange’s shrieks of_ crucio _. How she expects—oh, it’s stopped again. The questions come. She keeps at it, telling the truth. They_ haven’t _been to her vault, haven’t been anywhere_ near _Gringotts! But Lestrange won’t take it as an acceptable answer. She’s frightened, and it twists her into an even madder person as if that were bloody_ possible _._

There’s a period of time she doesn’t remember— _can’t_ remember. She casts a quick _episkey_ , healing the wound from the glass shard, and casts another charm to clean the mess left over. Crookshanks nudges open her bedroom door and comes to plop himself rather unceremoniously in her lap. Wait—she blinks and he’s gone. He was never there. She misses him so much that she’s now _hallucinating_ him? Oh for—

She wakes up a few hours later and her quarters are ruined. Curled up on her mattress, sheets wrapped around her like a cocoon. Another chunk of missing time.

It’s out of some slim appearance of her old, responsible self that she writes to this unknown person who’s been supplying her with the vials for her tremors. Of course she apologises first for ruining a perfectly good potion by carelessly dropping the vial, but when a letter and new vial returns to her not even an hour and a half later, she briefly smiles at the witch’s comforting, understanding words. It has to be a witch—she’s not seen a wizard with such good handwriting before, nor does the word choice and phrasing sound like a man’s.

The impossible giggle that escapes from her lungs is a wonder, but it’s simply the image the other witch has conjured with her words: _Feel free to give this one a test drive—I’ve applied an anti-shatter charm and bouncing charm to the vial. Tested it myself. It’ll bounce around like a child’s rubber ball. My grandson rather enjoyed the sight._ She’s tempted again to ask Harry who he got to make this for her, but knows better by now.

* * *

“Hermione, love,” Ginny’s voice surrounds her like a soothing blanket she doesn’t deserve. “McGonagall’s gonna come down here herself if we can’t get you to go talk to her. You’ve missed two days of lessons now, and that—that’s _never_ happened before. This isn’t _you_ , Hermio—”

A sob rips itself from her throat and she curls into herself after pushing Ginny away. Luna’s at the door, preventing her from leaving. “This _is_ me, and _I_ know, _everyone_ knows it now! Hermione the bloody hysterical mudblood!” She laughs wetly and lets the tears flow freely from her eyes. She couldn’t stop them even if she tried at this point. Bellatrix Lestrange has ruined her.

_Lestrange crawls on top of her, thighs pressing against hers as she dangles a knife in front of her face. The witch cooes at her like she’s a baby, and in any other situation this may have done something else entirely to her, but Merlin, the way Lestrange is looking at her, from her face to her arms and hands and body—gods she could almost piss herself from the sheer fright. She swallows and tries to thrash, but Lestrange has her in some sort of partial body-bind, and all she can do is whimper as the Death Eater nearly looks to get_ off _on this special form of torture._

_The only thing to break her out of the hold she’s been placed in is when Bellatrix whispers an unknown incantation against her right hand, then immediately starts upon the left, but—she makes an almost inhuman scream, the pain is worse than_ crucio _because it’s_ real _, it’s real and she can’t_ feel _her right hand anymore. She can’t—she breaks down and breaks free of the body-bind, flipping onto her back and throwing Bellatrix off in the process. But she doesn’t get far._

_She’s pinned again from behind, her left arm twisted unnaturally, another unbearable pain and all she wants to do is–is pass out or_ die _, but she’s not allowed to. Lestrange forces her to stay cognisant as that blade comes down on the inside of her left forearm, as slices dig into her flesh, as she hears the witch mutter, “Doesn’t deserve it, but mudblood doesn’t_ know _better, poor thing, so Bella had to step in and fix it. Fix her so the bitch can’t hold a wand. Can’t sully the world with her tainted magic. Not even wandless spells for the mudblood. Useless hands for the useless mudblood.”_

_Hermione glances around, trying to find anyone else with them, and thinks that she spots Narcissa and Draco. She tries to reach… reach out, though she’s shit at Legilimency, but she’s too late. The next time she wakes, she’s at Shell Cottage._

This time, when she wakes she’s in Professor McGonagall’s quarters. She stays there for an entire week while the article in the Prophet blows over as best it can.

* * *

She’s read what that blasted Prophet article said and had only hoped that they were exaggerating, but—

“They’re not. And I know for a fact that Hermione wishes she’d murdered Skeeter now in our fourth year.” Harry grimaces and takes a swig of Firewhiskey. She doesn’t partake as she’s still breastfeeding Teddy and doesn’t want to risk one thing. The spell’s a tricky little bugger. But she can’t fault Harry for wanting something to take the edge off. He’s told her that Hermione was taken to the Headmistress’s quarters after having a nervous breakdown, and Andromeda’s heart clenches at how the war is _still_ not leaving any of them alone. But Rita Skeeter seems to especially have it out for Hermione. Miss Granger. Andy’s not sure when she started to always refer to the witch by her first name when she hasn’t even properly _met_ her.

She learns that offers from the Ministry for Hermione have somewhat dried up, and Andromeda Tonks almost feels like a Gryffindor for a moment as the stray thought of marching straight in there and putting things _right_ passes through her mind. But she shakes the thought off, knowing it’s not her place to step in and handle the woman’s life and problems for her. She puts all of her energy into her Healing work at St. Mungo’s instead, and for raising Teddy who is a handful but a delight. He brings more and more light into her life every day.

She takes a bit of that light and on a whim writes to Hermione Granger.

* * *

Harry hands her a nondescript envelope the morning after her commencement from Hogwarts. He nudges her, tells her to wait until later to open it. She manages to forget about it until the next morning when it’s still lying unopened on her bedside table in Grimmauld Place. On an instinct she still hasn’t put to extinction she reaches her right arm out to grab it with her hand, but it hangs limp, unmoveable. It’s always a toss-up as to her reaction: will she cry? Will she swear at herself? Will she use her trembling left hand to throw, to shatter something? The one thing she hasn’t been able to follow through on is to rid her presence from this world. Her wand would never obey her, wouldn’t cast any curse that would extinguish her life. And she still can’t handle the sight of knives nor can she—any other method, and all of them have passed through her mind, she simply _can’t_. So there’s some tiny part of her that still wants to live.

That part of her is what opens the envelope and takes out the letter. It’s the same handwriting, the same script, from some time ago. The same witch. But she hadn’t sent her anything, had she? Hermione purses her lips and reads.

> _Miss Granger,_
> 
> _I will not extend platitudes of any sort; they are empty words, empty promises that things will be “all right.” What I will extend is that you have people who care about you in even the most unlikeliest of places. Unless this counts as a platitude and if so, I apologise._
> 
> _Rita Skeeter may never receive the justice she so sorely deserves. I hope that she does, but it’s never guaranteed, like almost everything is in this world save for so few exceptions._
> 
> _What I know to be true is that Harry and your other friends care about you deeply. And know that you are supported in whatever you choose to do now that Hogwarts is behind you. All this stranger would ask is that you stay in touch with Harry. He’s a good man._
> 
> _With care,  
> _ _An unlikely witch_

“Supported in whatever you choose to do,” she slowly repeats to herself in a whisper. It’s the first time in what feels like forever since she’s heard anything like that. No one trying to force something on her, choose for or guide her. Even Professor McGonagall and the Mind Mender she sometimes sees now, in all of their wisdom, have lacked that sort of tact. She settles back in bed, holding the parchment to her chest as she falls back to sleep.

When she wakes again she rereads the letter, and the decision comes easy.

* * *

“Said it wasn’t like her, trusting in some stranger’s words,” Harry remarks as he places a bread roll on her dinner plate. He’d _insisted_ on serving the meal this evening, and Molly Weasley has graciously taken Teddy for the night so she can properly relax. “But she also said that there was _something_ about this witch, almost as if she already knew her. You’ve gone and properly won Hermione over with those Slytherin charms of yours, Andy.” He winks at her and she lightly whacks him across the arm.

His words stay with her late into the night. She’s so used to hearing noises from Teddy’s cot, though, and partially blames her wandering thoughts on that. It doesn’t help her that Harry _conveniently_ left behind a Wizarding photograph of him and Hermione from the summer before their seventh year. Or what was meant to be their seventh year at Hogwarts. She grabs it up from the nightstand again and watches the two Gryffindors pull funny faces at the camera. It’s from before they got dressed for Bill and Fleur Delacour-Weasley’s wedding. A wedding she’d almost gone to, but at the last moment convinced herself it wasn’t worth the hassle of transfiguring her facial features for.

Hermione looks so happy in this photograph, though there’s an underlying tension she can just _barely_ detect. It’s there in Harry’s eyes, too. Two people who’d had too much thrust upon their shoulders. She wonders for a moment where Ronald Weasley is, but then she spots him in the background there with Fred and George Weasley. Gods… she wipes her eyes and tucks the photo in a drawer before falling asleep.

* * *

It’s months later when she’s sitting in a Muggle coffee shop that she spots Hermione for the first time in person. The younger witch looks… healthy? To the best of her knowledge, at least. Healthier than what she had heard of before. Perhaps time spent in the Muggle world has been good to both of them. As she considers sending another letter to the witch to check in on her, Andromeda’s grateful that she chose an out of the way corner booth, though, almost hidden entirely from sight. She enjoys the privacy, and it still has a window she can look out of.

Her gaze flicks over to land on the Muggle-born witch again. She’s heard snippets from Harry, that his friend has gone to Australia and mostly managed to restore her parents’ memories with aid from an Unspeakable who specialises in complex memory charms and their still rather experimental removals. But she also knows that they aren’t quite where they should be and are still patients of St. Mungo’s, getting further care and rehabilitation.

Maybe today’s been a good day for them. Or maybe there’s another reason for the easy smile that graces Hermione Granger’s face as she takes the coffee from the barista’s hands. It’s the first time she’s properly heard the other witch’s voice, too, and Andromeda finds herself wanting to hear it again. But she settles for replaying the words and sweet, almost lilting accent in her mind, taking glances every now and then as the younger woman sips at her coffee and reads from a Muggle novel that Andy can’t quite make out the title of as it’s missing its cover sleeve and appears rather old and worn.

What she hasn’t thought of is that she’ll have to wait for Hermione to leave or have something distract her enough so she can exit the building without alarming the woman with her appearance that she hasn’t bothered to alter because this is the _Muggle world_ , and Muggles didn't know Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black. Or at least, any _living_ Muggles. She suppresses a shudder and redirects her thoughts, slides her gaze over to Hermione again as she lifts her now empty coffee mug to her lips. It’s a fortunate thing, too, because the sight that greets her has her expel a sharp breath.

Something’s set Hermione off—she’s visibly shaking, drops her book on the floor, and when a rather large and hairy man, complete with full beard, goes to help her, she takes one look at him and— Andy hisses under her breath. She’s got to get Harry here. With a few flicks and flourishes of her wand underneath the table, she sends an urgent Patronus Harry’s way, telling him the address to apparate near. Ever so swiftly afterwards, she ducks her face and applies a few transfigurations, because Harry’s going to need help. They might need to call in a few discreet Obliviators as well.

The younger witch doesn’t look at her, all for the better. Harry comes in and helps a now mute Hermione out of the shop, his arm wrapped around her to guide her out. He nods in Andy’s direction, and she takes that as word that further help is coming, because there’s simply a few too many Muggles to Obliviate by herself. Though Harry doesn’t like the whole _hush-hush_ to this, it’s for Hermione’s benefit. A few hundred Galleons to pay the Obliviators off is nothing from the account she shared with Ted as well as Harry’s two accounts.

Harry writes her later that the black curls of a Muggle patron, so like Bellatrix’s, had set Hermione off at first, and the Muggle man had reminded her viscerally of Fenrir Greyback. She swallows uncomfortably at the implications. The Prophet hadn’t reported on any connection between the crazed, bloodthirsty, and lecherous werewolf with Hermione Granger. But now she knows there was one. Thankfully the man is as dead as her older sister, but like her sister, death doesn’t mean the end of memories.

* * *

She hates this. She hates it, hates, _hates_. Even in the bloody Muggle world she sees such a simple thing as _black curls_ on a _Muggle woman_ and that propels her into tunnel vision and shaky breathing, clenching her left hand and losing control. Wild magic. She’d asked Harry how they were going to clean everything up, and he’d promised her he had it handled. Him and an unlikely witch. She’d raised an eyebrow at him, but he only held his hands up and said it wasn’t his story to tell.

“Don’t tell me she’s the one you’re secretly dating?” she asks, meaning it playfully, and Harry chortles at the idea. All right, then. This refocuses her mind well enough, she supposes. Distracts, helps keep her from going under. The woman isn’t Harry’s type in some way. Or multiple ways. He confirms that she’s older, and he isn’t into older women. Hermione wonders if he’s even into witches at all, but decides against pushing it. She doesn’t want to drive him away, though he says she never could.

They play a game of Wizard Chess, which while she’s gotten loads better at it since first year, Harry’s still able to wipe the floor with her at it. It used to infuriate her, but these days it’s nothing like that. Her set still gives her advice, and sometimes she takes it, sometimes she doesn’t. A few of her pieces seem to hold a grudge against her for it, while the others are more lenient. The magic in them fascinates her, and she still means to research into it further.

“You got much closer this time,” Harry says as they recline on the couch in her sitting room. “You’re getting better, you know.” She immediately notices the double-meaning and leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. A part of her just wants to nod off here with him, but he softly jostles her awake and grins almost sheepishly at her.

She blinks and raises a corner of her lips. “You’ve got a date, haven’t you?”

He scratches at the back of his neck and nods.

“Well, don’t let me keep you, Mr Potter.” She sits up and pushes his shoulder gently, but keeps her fingers on him as she notices something… off. “Wait… by date, what do you mean exactly, Harry?” She fixes a hard stare at him, knowing he’s shite at lying, so she’ll have her answer in a moment.

“I, er, the _date_ is with Teddy Lupin. I’m spending the night, giving Andromeda a much-deserved break from looking after him.” The fingers of her left hand twitch and it’s not from the tremors. Andromeda… Andromeda Tonks. Who had been Andromeda Black before marrying Ted Tonks. Hermione breathes in sharply and worries at her lip. She starts slightly at Harry’s hand on her arm.

“She… I’ve not met her. She used to be a Black, right?”

Harry gives a short nod. “Sirius was a Black, too, Hermione. He wasn’t—”

“ _Bad_ , I know. But Mrs Tonks… she’s Mrs Malfoy’s sister, isn’t she?” Of course she is. She’s not an idiot who’s never read _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. But she asks anyway.

“She is. She was also… _her_ sister. And, er, she looks almost exactly like… y’know, her. If she’d taken, er, care of herself properly. It was hard for me the first time.” Harry pauses, licks his lips, and looks her directly in the eye with a glint of determination and surety in his own green ones. “But she’s _nothing_ like her. She visits the Burrow sometimes with Teddy, and I _–_ I don’t bring it up, but I’d love for you to meet him some time on his home turf, considering…”

Right. The entire bit with Ron and especially Mrs Weasley who she’s still not on the best of terms with. She’ll get there again someday, maybe. Once Ronald gets his bloody head out of his arse and maybe stands up for her instead of the silence that by default puts him on his mother’s good side. She sighs, almost groans. Maybe it’d do her some good. At some point, not right now, not when…

“Someday, perhaps.” She forces a small smile. “When seeing a Muggle woman’s black curls doesn’t set me off, you know?” 

Harry pats her on the knee good-naturedly. “You’ll get there, Hermione. However much of a platitude that may or may not be, I’m not sure. But you’re one of my best mates, and also? Let me swing by St. Mungo’s with you one day soon, see your parents with you. You said they’re gradually getting better, right?”

It means the world that he remembers.

* * *

There’s a small stack of letters from Narcissa Malfoy that she’s been avoiding for the past month and a half. Harry’s the one who eventually gets her to open and read them all, and she discovers that her sister wants to make amends, to try and build a relationship again. Part of her wants to dump the letters in the fire, but the other part of her, the part that’s so _desperate_ for what she used to have with her sisters… that’s the part that wins out. She’ll never have Bella back, not only because she’s been dead nearly two years now, but even if she was still alive, the Bella she knew and loved seemed to have died during her sentence in Azkaban, or likely even before then.

But Narcissa… her little sister. Her Cissa. Or Cissy, though that was more Bella’s nickname for her. She’d… done what the cards had dealt her. She’d had prime seating to see what happened to her two older sisters, the two vastly different life paths, and went for the safest route to save her own skin. She hated her for it. She loved her still. Her heart ached to see Cissa’s writing, still so delicate and evenly spaced. Proper pure-blood handwriting lessons paid off for her in spades.

She doesn’t invite Narcissa over for tea, it’s far too early still for that. But she can keep the line of communication open. It’s the least she can do. And so she does, and letters slowly but surely are exchanged between the two of them.

Perhaps she’s not as stuck as she’s sometimes felt.

* * *

It’s been over two years since the Battle of Hogwarts, over a year since she graduated from Hogwarts and went into the Muggle world, and Hermione decides it’s high time that she returns to Wizarding society. It’s not a decision she’s come to suddenly or lightly, but one that she’s weighed carefully within her hands for months while still seeing her Mind Mender and Professor McGonagall— no, _Minerva_ , every so often. The sparse letters from that _unlikely witch_ , anonymous as she is, have helped as well, more than she can readily admit to Harry or anyone else. They've honestly saved her from metaphorically drowning more often than not, right when she needs some comforting words, a lifeline.

Her parents, at least, are back to normal, or as normal as they can be after their only daughter, only _child_ , used her magic on them without their explicit knowledge. Even if it was for a noble reason, to save them from the wrath of Death Eaters or even Lord Voldemort himself… she’d still entered their minds, their memories, and altered them. Sent them to a foreign continent for so long. She’s still working to rebuild trust, a relationship with them— and she’s discarded her wand, her magic, living with them. It’s what they ask of her, and it’s honestly a small request, easy to follow, after what she did.

But she knows now that they’ve properly settled into life in England again, it’s time for her to rent her own flat. She hates magic sometimes, for how it was perverted and used against her for such a silly and inconsequential thing like blood status, but she… she misses it, too. So she looks into a flat in Wizarding London with Harry by her side until she settles on a small one-bedroom. It’s cosy, with enough room for perhaps a pet someday, once she feels she can… properly move past the loss of Crookshanks. And there’s more than enough room for a few bookcases.

Her account at Gringotts has grown rather well with the interest rate she’d secured on her monetary award for her role in ending the war. She’s still sure about donating quite a bit to various charities, specifically those for Muggle-borns, but she also has enough to take a bit of time finding a proper job. The Ministry used to be such an attractive idea, but the more time she spent away, the more she realised… She wants a quiet life. Moderately so, at least. Thankfully there’s been some progress made at the Ministry even without her spearheading it, and she knows she can rest relatively easy for now.

After a month passes by, she finds an attractive job advertisement in the Daily Prophet for a book clerk at Pivotal Chapters, a bookstore on Lateral Arcade, a small offshoot street of Diagon. It has a smaller clientele, but stocks rarer books than Flourish and Blotts, both of which appeal to her. The owner, during the interview, doesn’t treat her like the war heroine to be worshipped, but like _Hermione_. Just… Hermione. It cements her decision to accept the position, and the first few weeks are near bliss. Even the times she accidentally drops books because of the tremors in her left hand aren’t enough to knock her off the progress she’s made.

That is until she’s crouched in the backroom, sorting through owl shipments when she glances up and through the crack in the door she spots almost familiar curls in the distance. Her breath catches and she falls back onto her arse while she cycles through thoughts of her deceased torturer. But when she looks back up, she notices the curls are brown, not near black as Bellatrix’s had been. And the side profile is… softer. She only realises a few minutes later that she’s just seen her first glimpse of Andromeda Tonks. When she asks her boss about the witch later, she’s told that the woman hardly ever comes in here, and it’s… unfortunately reassuring. She hates herself for the feeling, but later Harry tells her that’s all right.

All it really shows her is that she still has one huge hurdle to get through before she can finally consider herself to have made peace with what Bellatrix Lestrange did to her, and that’s meeting the sister who looks so much like her. She talks to Harry about it, and he says he’ll bring it up with… Andy. _What a cute nickname_ , her brain supplies. If she could slap her own mind for such a stray and damning thought, she would.

* * *

“She wants to meet me?” Andromeda finally manages to croak out. Harry simply nods and tosses a play Snitch up in the air again to amuse Teddy. The little metamorphmagus chases the much slower Quidditch ball around the sitting room while she still tries to comprehend what Harry’s told her. It’s been sometime now since she last used the breastfeeding charm to nurse the boy, and there’s moments where she honest-to-Merlin misses it. Simpler times, even though she'd been fresh with grief back then when she started with Harry's nudging.

Andy covers her still slightly opened mouth with a hand and shudders, some great wave of emotion inexplicably coming over her. Harry’s at her side in a moment’s notice and wraps an arm around her. Salazar, what has she _done_ to deserve such a kind boy by her side? She returns the hug fully and pulls him to her, pressing a kiss to his head. “I…” she clears her throat roughly, “I would be honoured to meet Miss Granger.”

“Hermione,” Harry gently corrects. “She might react better if you skip to her first name. Extend some warm familiarity. Also, it’s not like we’re Hogwarts students anymore.”

Her eyes widen by a fraction. “Even if it isn’t... earned, calling her that?”

Harry pulls back from the hug and rolls his eyes at her. “Oh, I’m more than sure you’ve _earned_ it, even if Hermione doesn’t exactly know it yet. You’ve continued sending letters every so often with her, right?” Andy acknowledges the fact that yes, she has, just like she’s done with Narcissa. Harry hums, shrugs, and grins at her, reminding her as well that Hermione’s still getting those potions for the tremors in her left hand. Tells her that he figures this will be good for the both of them, to finally meet. Her heart pounds in her chest as she agrees.


End file.
